


Nichol

by AltFire



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltFire/pseuds/AltFire
Summary: Nichol “Nick” Strongblood was raised as any human noble was.--My backstory & various drabbles for my noble half-orc fighter.





	1. Backstory

**Author's Note:**

> I had to post this somewhere so my DM & party-mates could see it.

Nichol “Nick” Strongblood was raised as any human noble - in a secluded community of lavish mansions and extravagant manors, tended by servants and educated by private tutors, wanting for nothing and envied by the commoners in the valley below. They trained from a young age in the art of all things martial, mastering the heavy two-handed weapons their peers could scarcely heft from their stands, their considerable natural skill overshadowing their poor performance in academics. For many years they lived alone with their mother, the most honorable Marquise Marcellia Strongblood, the last living member of the Strongblood bloodline and the infamous “wild child” of the once-powerful family.

Marcellia seemed to thrive off of drama, the center of hundreds of rumors over her lifetime - they say her rebelliousness killed her parents, the Marquis Jacques Strongblood and his wife, Coralie. Marcy sneaked out of the Strongblood Manor nightly to revel with commoners and sneak off into the nearby forests, disappearing for days at a time sometimes. Still, when she inherited the estate she quieted down significantly, acting every part the adult noblewoman she was with such poise as was befitting of her title.

Until, when she was in her late twenties, she became pregnant.

The community was ablaze with rumors about Marcy Strongblood yet again - who was the father? A commoner? A nobleman? If so, whom? She stopped sneaking off at night, instead spending her days in town, parading around her swollen stomach as if to show off. No one knew what she could have possibly been up to until the baby was born, the news so instantly obvious and shocking the midwife very nearly dropped the infant in her horror.

She hadn’t been expecting an  _ orc. _

Or, well, a half-orc. Marcy cackled at the midwife’s expression as she beckoned for her child, whom she cradled to her chest with uncharacteristic tenderness and named “Nichol.”

The father, of course, was a respected warrior in the orc clan living deep in the nearby woods, Dhagur the Silent (a name earned by his exceptional stealth when tracking or sneaking up on an enemy, not for any muteness). Marcy had known him for years - when she’d stumbled upon their village years before he had been the only one who could speak Common, and he’d been as fascinated with her as she’d been with him. Over the years they grew close as he taught her Orcish and she told him about all the silly luxuries of nobility. In no time they were in love, but kept their relationship secret from both of their communities for fear of backlash.

Eventually the rest of Dhagur’s clan found out and abruptly decided he either needed to kill her and present her head to the chief, or exile himself from the area. He chose the latter, and in one final night together they consummated their undying passion, unknowingly leading to Nichol’s conception, before Dhagur left for good. Marcy was heartbroken but persevered, knowing that this child would have to be her final rebellion before she became a mother. She thought it funny that what might be the final Strongblood was a half-orc - finally, someone who truly deserved the name!

When the rest of the nobles found out they were collectively mortified that their collective reputation would be tarnished by such a half-breed, that their children would attend classes with this child, that eventually they would even inherit their mother’s title and join them as a fully-realized noble. The commoners didn’t mind so much - perhaps they, too, thought it funny that the majority of them had purer blood than Nichol did, but still believed that nobles were nobles, race be damned.

Nichol, of course, could always tell something was wrong. They were always treated differently whenever they dared leave the estate, whether by tutors or peers or other nobility, even lesser Earls and Barons sneering as though Nichol were some beast that brute forced its way into their homes and not a child born of albeit uncommon circumstances. In the few classes not held privately in the manor, such as weapons training with Dame Winterguard or learning Elvish with Sir Pantorin, the human children would often scorn Nichol for any mistake, calling them by various made-up Orcish-sounding names (especially “Grock”) and making fun of their tusks and green skin.

Nichol was eight when their mother finally married a human noble - Baron Rickard Palerun, who seemed charming enough to Nichol but whom they never saw as a father figure. Within the year they had a baby sister named Locke Palerun with whom the only feature they shared was Marcellia's dark hair. They loved her instantly, excited to be an older sibling.

When Nichol grew to ten years of age, an orc showed up on the Strongblood doorstep. The door was answered by a servant and the orc was led into the manor, apparently in possession of news meant for the Marquise’s ears only. Nichol overheard and followed them, unseen, to their mother's chambers.

The orc, older than Nichol but not old enough to be their father (much to their disappointment; they had thought that maybe-), told Marcellia that Dhagur the Silent had died days prior, attacked by a band of knights when he'd wandered too close to a major city while hunting. The knights had all been killed, but this orc was the only remaining of Dhagur’s party. Marcellia grew visibly distraught as the story was told. As Dhagur had lay dying, he had summoned the messenger to his side, breaths rattling low and ragged, blood on his lips. He told the messenger to deliver his greataxe, named Silencer, to a human noblewoman named Marquise Marcellia Strongblood, and to tell her that a day hadn't gone by in ten years where he hadn't remembered her and mourned every moment they had spent apart.

He unslung the axe, a massive single-headed thing with a star-like shape cut out of the blade toward the handle and with spear-like spiked on either end, from his back and presented it to her as she began to cry, reaching out to take it with shaking hands. Nichol was so shocked by the story and the sight - they'd never seen their mother cry before - that they accidentally leaned forward on the door too hard and pushed it open with a loud creak that had both Marcellia and the messenger turning around.

The orc’s eyes grew wide after a moment as the realization dawned on him who this child must be. Marcellia cleared her throat after a moment. “Ah, this is- this is Nichol. My only child. I’m sure you can guess who their father is.”

When Nichol finally graduated from their fighter training, after over three years of private lessons with Mme Winterguard, they were fifteen years of age - an adult, by Orcish standards. As a coming-of-age gift, their mother gifted Silencer to them, noting that their incredible talent with two-handed weapons, and greataxes in particular, must have been inherited from their father. For hours into the night she finally answered questions about Dhagur after years of silence, her heart too broken to bear sharing. She told stories  he’d told her when they'd known each other, stories she’d heard from commoners down in the valley, stories of his cunning and strength and charismatic leadership. She told of how Silencer had spilled more blood in its lifetime than any other blade could hope to in a thousand years, and that not a drop of it had been of an innocent, or done in cold blood. It was an honorable blade, and she insisted that Nichol promise that if they must ever use it, it must only be on those who truly deserve to die. Fifteen years old and still bright-eyed and idealistic, they nodded and smiled and promised.

Things began to deteriorate. Rickard began taking over more and more of the estate, all the boring stuff Marcellia always hated coming under his control. Nichol paid less and less attention to anything of real value, spending much of their time shopping and training with Silencer and simply lounging around their chambers without a care in the world. Rickard tried to force them to show any interest at all in stately affairs but Nichol was entirely uninterested, continuing to do as they pleased and blatantly disrespect him. His long-hidden prejudice soon became all too apparent and whenever Marcellia wasn't around he, like every other human noble Nichol had known, began saying the same awful things about tainted blood and stupid orcs.

As a sign of rebellion, Nichol played up the orc thing by cutting their hair into an undercut ponytail, a distinctly Orcish look, and getting a plethora of solid gold piercings in their face and ears. Whenever Rickard was around, and especially while both he and Marcellia were around, they would speak only in Orcish. They usually hated the unrefined, gutteral sound of it, but it was worth it to see Rickard’s face go nearly purple in furious revulsion. Marcellia thought it was silly, but didn't realize the extent to which Rickard was treating Nichol poorly - or the extent to which he was taking over her life.

Soon after Nichol turned 18, Marcellia grew very ill, though she didn't die until after a long year of pain. Nichol began growing more serious as they watched their mother wither away, learning their future duties as Marquis and heir to the entirety of the Strongblood Estate, something they should have been learning since birth but that neither they nor their mother had ever prioritized.

Marcellia died less than a month after Nichol turned 19, breathing her last in the middle of the night as she slept. Her funeral was a private affair, with little no family aside from the Paleruns and few friends to speak of. Nichol couldn't bear to go, locked up in their chambers for three days in grief, then finally went to see her tomb and spent hours knelt there on the stone, waiting for the awful reality to fade away like a dream, but it didn't. She was gone. It was time they grew up anyway.

The ceremony to inherit her title was short and simple, declaring them the honorable Marquis Nichol Strongblood, and nearly giving them the deed to the estate and all within - until Rickard stood, cleared his throat, and objected.

He insisted that, as a half-breed, Nichol wasn’t the most suitable heir for the property or the title. He insisted the title be his, as the Marquise’s widower, and that he take over the estate as regent until the true heir was of age - that heir being Locke.

There wasn't a noble in the room that cared for Nichol. The ceremony was bare-bones at best,  less momentous than a commoner’s birthday party, and though the line of succession clearly stated that Nichol must inherit the title, Marcellia left no will (having believed everything would obviously go to Nichol and that no will was needed), and with Rickard being her widower, they decided collectively that it made more sense that he decided what would become of the estate. It was ridiculous and illegal, and Nichol objected furiously, but their indignant rage was taken as another sign they were a simple, bestial orc with no business running a noble estate.

Back at the manor afterward, they and Rickard got in the shouting match of the century, ending with Nichol threatening to take his life and Rickard deciding once and for all to kick them out. They froze, and after a moment much of their anger was replaced by fear. Leave? They knew no where else - the manor was their  _ home,  _ Rickard couldn't just-

But he did. Locke stormed in, tears streaming down her face as she overheard. Despite everything, she and Nichol were as close as siblings could be, and she begged Rickard to let them stay, but he wouldn't listen. Nichol was forced to collect their things and leave by nightfall, doing so with their heart in their throat and fire in their eyes, exchanging a teary goodbye with Locke before leaving home for good.

They spent a couple nights in the village in the valley, unsure what to do or where to go, when they heard the first whispers of the island that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere off the western coast. Heroes from all over Faerûn were flocking to port cities all over to try and find their way to the island, braving supposed horrors in hopes of finding glory, fortunes, legacies amidst the arcane mystery. An adventure, people were calling it, and many asked if Nichol was headed that way - if that was why they had left the mountain. Self-conscious, and perhaps intrigued by the idea of finding their own fortune after having theirs stripped from them, they said they were, and asked for direction and boarded the soonest carriage west.

 


	2. Nick & Locke's Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post my drabbles as I write them. This one is pre-campaign. The campaign related drabbles will be in order, but the ones like this likely won't.

"But dad!"

"Locke! Go to your room!"

"You can't just make Nick leave-"

"Rickard, please," I said, eyes pleading, fingers itching for a blade. "I'd have nowhere to go-"

"I don't care!" Rickard boomed, and part of me thought I should be startled. Instead, I became angry. "You've taken advantage of my hospitality long enough! I want you out of my house by sundown."

The Strongblood Manor was rightfully mine, I wanted to remind him. I'd lived in it longer than he had, and it had still belonged to Mother when she died - it had been willed to me! Hell, I share the name and the title - but no, the law played no part in this theft. With Mother gone, my status is precarious at best. I may have inherited the title, and to commoners I am clearly nobility and they treat me as such, but all human nobility look down on me. They have since I was born, sneering down (or  _ up,  _ as the typical height difference dictates) at me in obvious disdain. Mother could ignore the whispers, but I always heard talk of how she’d singlehandedly ruined the bloodline. When Rickard unlawfully took Mother’s property, no one scarcely lifted a brow, let alone a finger, knowing if it went not to him it would have gone to me.

Locke was teary eyed as her father stormed from the drawing room, leaving the two of us alone. She ran forward to wrap herself around my waist, nearly upsetting my balance.

"It's not fair," she sniffed, muffled by my tunic. "I don't want you to go."

I pet her dark hair back, the one thing we both got from Mother. Otherwise we both resembled our fathers - myself imposing and very obviously orcish, her pale and pointed and petit. "I don't want to go either," I said, frowning. "But Dickard made it plenty clear I can't stay."

She smiled at the nickname, then sighed. "When I'm old enough and the house is mine, you can come back. I'll send for you."

"So six years from now?" I sighed in faux-relief. "Thank the gods. That's practically no time!"

Locke laughed, letting me go at last and batting my side with one small hand. "It's the best I can do! I'm eleven, not an advocate!"

I grinned. "I know, I'm just joking." I huffed. "This would be easier if I could just kill him."

She shrieked, giggling high and surprised. "Nick! You can't kill my dad!"

"I thought you wanted me to stay?"

"You would be executed! And I would have to go to an orphanage!"

I scoffed. "Ah, details."


	3. The Right Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I fucked up. References events from our July 11th session.

I did the right thing. This is what I wanted. They trust me, and now I can stay in the camp until I think of my next move. I did the right thing. I did the right thing. I did the right-

_BOOM._

I can hear it- see it, feel it, replaying over and over in my mind's eye. Her struggling in my grip, warm and vehement, the pride swelling in my chest as I presented her (the woman who gave me free passage here, the woman who may have been a wretch and a drunk but not despicable) to the de facto leader of the other survivors. I can still smell her hair and the muggy jungle air, hear her pleas and Zanfyr's muffled breathing and- and a click, as the leader pulls that strange weapon from its sheath and pulls something back with his thumb.

Then there's the _BOOM,_ loud as a cannon but higher and more concentrated, and my ears ring as all at once her struggling stops and she becomes dead weight in my hand. Something warm hits my face, arm, hand, shoulder and I can smell iron and sickly gunpowder. The ringing in my ears is overpowered by my heartbeat as it tries to bust it's way out my chest. I stare at the bloodied, mangled mess of her head in horror and drop her to the ground. My fingers are numb, my legs won't move though they itch to run, my throat is closed off and I can't breathe, can't speak.

And then I'm back in the present, tripping over a tree's root and scratching up my palm on it's bark to catch myself. I force myself to keep breathing. I'm fine. I did what I wanted - exposed an imposter and earned the other survivors' favor. It was the right thing.

 _"They're bad people!"_ I can still hear Khan's voice, hissing at me through the leaves. _"Come with us, don't trust them!"_

 _"You fucking idiot!"_ I can still hear Zanfyr's furious whisper, under his breath once we're alone. Part of me can't help but agree.

I didn't think she would die. Captured, imprisoned, tortured - sure. She was tough as nails, she would have been fine. I didn't know the leader had that same hand-cannon Zanfyr had taken from the pirate captain, I didn't know it would blow her head near clean off, I didn't know my actions would directly lead to her death. How could I have known?

I nearly trip again and Boomlay catches the back of my tunic, nearly falling over himself from my weight. I manage to rebalance and I avoid looking at him as we continue to search for the others. I know I saw the archer - Sam - and the woman at the altar had mentioned an elven paladin - Regius. What others were there? The gnome and her half-orc bodyguard? The mercenaries? Any number of deckhands? The woman we saved from the torturer? The first mate, Tinder?

The leader wanted them taken alive, but I know if I want to keep them alive - I don't relish more blood on my hands - I can't do that. Could Zanfyr, Boomlay, and I escape to join them? Would we have to fight this elf and human with the terrible haircut? Would Sam and Regius and the others (if there are others) accept us if we tried? Would they accept Zanfyr and Boomlay and not me?

I'm a fool. I'm a gods-damned oaf, so unsure of what to do outside of Strongblood Manor that I haven't done anything other than follow a crowd since. An imbecil whose first decision may very well be one of the worst they've ever made.

I try to think fast, think of a plan. I could... I don't know. All my life I've proven over and over that forethought is my least favored subject. I could try to lead the search party astray, but I don't know where the others are encamped so I could run us straight into them. I could try and lose our new company, but I'm anything but stealthy. I could try to kill them, but for one I'm reluctant to draw my blade with my hands shaking like this and for another I don't know if I could take them on my own. I suppose I could loan Boomlay a blade, as I'm sure he's learned how to use one if he's also of noble birth, but I can't as much rely on Zanfyr to stay loyal to me. He's loyal to no one but his whims.

I could... perhaps I could just do as I was told. Kill or detain the others and continue to bask in the approval and trust of the other survivors. Or I could- oh! I could knock them out or- or somehow convince them to play dead, and while we're taking them back to camp we could stage their escape. I don't believe I could best the both of them anyhow - Sam is a beast with a bow, from what I saw with the pirates, and Regius is as striking and powerful as any elf or knight I've ever seen. Small, though, the both of them. Silencer could slice Sam clean in half if I got close, I'm sure, and Regius's armor would only stand up so much. Mme Winterguard made sure I mastered the strength needed to slice the best steel as if it were bread.

So... maybe. If worst comes to worst, I try my luck. Maybe Zanfyr will think of something.


	4. Aftermath (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long fight, everyone takes a moment to speak and recover. References events from our July 15th session.

The air smells of iron and salt, and as we watched the dead march away, I was uneasy. So many had died - several natives and the snake woman-beast and the tortured woman from the ship and Tinder (though part of me is glad she's dead, as if she discovered I got Khan killed, she would have murdered me) - and even those alive suffer scars. The small orc lay unconscious, and when she tried to speak her words had left her and she was slow to understand. Zanfyr was crying over Tinder's body, the most emotional I've ever seen him. Sam was clutching at the other orc's chest and sobbing, as the snake-beast had forced her to attack him. They were closer than I remembered them being.

After the fight I wandered away from the ashen remains of the snake-beast, past the gnome and the small orc and Regius, to stand at the edge of the water and watch as the dead took back to their feet and began filing away into the jungle. I prepared Silencer, ready for the second round of this fight, but no one else felt the same, standing around and waving them away. The two leftover mercs - aside from the one walking with the dead and the one holding Sam - turned to hold each other, the elf crying and the human patting her back.

I was distracted by watching them all, hesitantly putting Silencer away, when I heard soft splashing as Boomlay walked through the pool of water toward me. I asked if he was okay and he nodded, looking me over as if checking for wounds. Aside from a shallow gash in my stomach from a spear, I was fine. Hardly broke a sweat.

Then, he looked around at Sam and the orc, the mercs, then back at me. He couldn't meet my eyes but he said, "So, uh... everyone is hugging."

I nearly just said yes, they were, before I realized what he meant. I raised my eyebrows, surprised, but he looked so anxious I decided to wrap him in my arms. He put his around my middle, worried perhaps about my injury but otherwise squeezing as if to reassure himself I was still there.

He mumbled something into my chest that I didn't get, and I hummed in question. He pulled his face away just enough to not be muffled, and said very softly, "Please don't die."

I was shocked at the fear and worry in his voice, startled by the earnest tone, and nervously I laughed. "I don't plan on it," I said, smoothing one hand up and down his back in some attempt at comfort. I'd done the same for Locke before, and it seemed to work as well for him as it did for her.

There was a tug low on my cloak, and I finally let him go and turned. The gnome had abandoned the small orc and was now peering up at me, small as a child. I was reminded of the time I woke on the ship and found her asleep on my legs, having found nowhere else to sleep. My heart had warmed toward her then, and the hollow look on her face now had me worried.

Before I could say anything, however, she held out her hands, one wrapped in a small fist and another holding a note.

"For me?" I asked, and she huffed.

"Just take them. Read the note."

I held out my hands and she dropped hers' contents into them. The note was hard to read, written in Common with old, smudged ink, and the other object was a vivid blue sapphire in the shape of a teardrop. I looked at the gnome - Grenda, I remember her name was - in question but already she had returned to the orc's side and was brushing her hair with her small fingers.

The note dictated that- that the small orc, Gram, had been trained her entire life to protect Grenda as part of their religion worshipping a lesser god of water, Aqua. It also said that, upon Gram's death or incapacitation, it was up to Grenda to choose who would be her new protector. I realized she had just chosen me, and felt instantly both nervous and proud.

"Will this interfere with... you know," Boomlay said, leaning around my arm to read the note. He was referring to my decision to protect him as much as I was able.

I shook my head. I could protect them both, surely. Part of me imagined tethering the both of them to my belt so I didn't lose them in the jungle and nearly laughed at the thought.

"Her old guard is half the size I am. If she could protect her, I can protect the both of you."


	5. "You can borrow this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boomlay's stick is very funny but he's not gonna save anyone's life with that ridiculous thing.

It's when Nick sees Boomlay walking around camp with his stupid stick that they're reminded of their idea. Now that they finally had some downtime during daylight hours, with no duties to tend to or enemies to fight, they decide there's no time like the present.  
  
"Boomlay!" they call for his attention. "Come here, I have something for you."  
  
He approaches, brows drawn as Nick ducks back inside their tent. He makes to follow when Nick sticks their hand back out, pointing.  
  
"Stay there."  
  
"What is it, Nick?" Boomlay asks, uncertain.  
  
"That stick of yours is ridiculous," they say, rooting through their things until they find- ah! there it is.  
  
Boomlay pouts - until something flies out of the tent at him, glinting metal and supple leather. It hits the ground at his feet and he realizes it's a sheath. And a blade. "You can borrow this," Nick says, nodding at it, and Boomlay's eyes go dinner plate wide, staring at it before bending to pick it up, dusting off the dirt.

"What- really? Don't you need it?" he asks, and Nick shrugs, dismissive.  
  
"I've got Silencer," they say, stepping back out of the tent. "Is it fine? Too big?"  
  
"I- it'll do," he says, and straps the sheath to his back, drawing the blade experimentally. His arms quiver just a little, and it seems obvious it may be too heavy. It takes a significant surge of strength to heave it through the air in a curious slash, and Nick takes a step back.  
  
"Careful with that," they say. "It's no rapier, but it's better than wood." They help him sheathe it and clap him on the shoulder, perhaps too hard. "Take care of it. Madame Winterguard gave me that longsword when I completed my training and I'd rather not lose it."


	6. Worst Bodyguard Award

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References events from our August 1st session.

Nick lightly pushes past Regius to take the dwarf's hand, seeing the opportunity to make themself look good for what it is.

"Marquis Nichol Strongblood," they say, pompous as anything.

She nods in return. "Margo Mira," she says with a shallow bow, and Nick's eyes light up.

They smile, preening at the attention. Ah, finally! Someone with  _ manners! _

\--

When they heard Regius's boots hit the water at the bottom of the hole, Nick began moving toward the rope to follow. They spared a thought of worry for the state of the rope - Could they trust Regius's knot tying to bear their weight? Could they trust the rope not to snap under the pressure? They were over a head taller than the elf and likely twice his weight, and for a moment they considered going last to preserve it, but then they thought of one of the others - Boomlay, Grenda, the elven and human mercenaries - losing their grip and falling to serious injury or death. No, they had to go down first. At the very least the others could jump and Nick could catch them.

Their clothes catch on the rough stone opening as they descend, watching to be sure Grenda and Boomlay are near the hole until they're too low to see them anymore, instead, carefully descending. Their pack and Silencer hang heavy on their back and the rope creaks, dust and bits of stone jostling from their spots to fall around them, dusting their hair and making faint splashes far below.

They landed in the water without incident, metal boots loud against stone, and let go of the rope to stand with arms outstretched just in case, staring up the small light peeking through the hole. Moments passed and no one approached the hole, and just as Nick was about to shout up in question, they heard shouting and a sort of strange, deep rumble, stomping footsteps. Their shoulders tensed, looking around in the dark cavern - they’d heard Zanfyr screaming. Were there others? Should they keep their voice down in case they alerted some unseen foe?

Before they could finish the thought, there was a scrape and the light coming down to the tunnel was obscured for a moment. Someone was coming down but the rope seemed untouched, and Nick braced themself to catch whomever it was.

“Oh! Oh no!” Grenda whimpered, looking up. “Oh no, Nick, the others-”

“Boomlay!” Nick shouted up the hole, all thought of subtlety and quiet lost. He had to get down too, he’d die up there on his own-

“He’s gone,” Grenda said. “Already ran off with Kreoda. Oh, I hope Deandre’s okay- he pushed me down the hole, you know. I think I scraped my leg-”

“What happened?” Nick interrupted, a sinking feeling in their stomach. They’d only really known Boomlay for a couple days - hells, they could count them off on one hand - but already the separation anxiety was setting in.

She launched into an explanation, gesturing wildly and speaking of massive man-sized toads mounted by natives, a massive tongue wrapped around Grenda’s middle until Boomlay sliced through it with Nick’s longsword to free her (and Nick sighed, almost relieved, at that), he and Kreoda running back toward camp while Deandre fended off the enemies, pushing Grenda down to relative safety. If they got out of here, and if Deandre survived whatever hellish encounter he was wrapped in, Nick decided they would have to speak with him. Thank him for protecting their charges when their incompetence once more put those around them in danger.

As they stepped deeper into the tunnels, eyes adjusting to the dark, Grenda reached out to take a fistful of Nick’s cloak. Anxiously, they reached back and offered their hand for her to take. They only barely heard her quiet, excited gasp as she accepted it. The corner of their mouth twitched, threatening to smile, but couldn’t get past the nerves. Instead, they squeezed her hand and continued forward.

\--

Nick's excitement at finally landing a blow after two failed attempts faded very quickly as Silencer cut through the awful creature - embedding in something significantly harder than its sinuous flesh. Grenda screamed, muffled and wet, and suddenly Nick felt cold all over as if dunked in ice water.

"N-no, oh no, oh no oh no oh no-" they murmured. "Oh no no no no no, gods, I'm so sorry-" But Grenda didn't seem to hear them, bursting into tears behind the ragged meat hiding her face. In a fit and with a small shout of anguish, she fisted both hands into the split Silencer had forged and used that leverage to tear it off, throwing it to the stone with a wet splat. Her crying was much clearer now, burying her head in her hands- and Nick realized they were seeing her,  _ the darkness was gone, _ and they heard another squelch behind them as Margo finished off the last of the creatures.

Well, not the last. The one that Grenda had just ripped off her face was bleeding heavily, but breathing and scuttling as quickly as it could away. Before it could escape, Nick lunged forward to catch one of its tentacles (if they could be even called such) under their boot to prevent its escape. It screeched, unholy and terrible, and Nick brought down Silencer once more to bisect the first wound, a gory X of slime and viscera as it breathed its last.

As their heartbeat in their ears quieted, they whirled around to look at Grenda. She had fallen to her knees, still holding her face and sobbing quietly. Her hands and sleeves were drenched in blood, and Nick felt a wave of nauseous guilt well up in their throat. They approached quickly, taking her wrists in their hands delicately. She flinched, whimpering, but hadn't the strength to resist as Nick pulled her hands away to inspect the wound. It was massive, cutting over her nose and between her eyes, sealing one of them shut with blood. The other was squinted and terrified, staring up at Nick in hurt and horror.

The apology stuck in their throat as they begrudgingly let her go, standing and backing away. Their shoulders shook, hands trembling as they slung Silencer on their back once more, terrified of what they'd done. They could have- they could have _ killed her. _ They were pledged to protect her life, and they nearly cleaved her gods damned head in two! Could they do anything right?

She healed herself weakly, then both Margo and Regius took turns laying their hands on her to do the same. All Nick could do was watch helplessly, knowing they had caused the damage but could do nothing to fix it.

Until- until they felt- They couldn't explain it aloud, but there was a sort of hum, very faint and trembling in their bones, centering around their back. They frowned, turning to look under their arm and inspect their pack, and saw something glowing blue through the fabric.  _ The sapphire.  _ Overcome by immediate curiosity, they fished it out and held it in their hand, feeling the hum stronger now until the skin of their palm itched and their frown deepened.

P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ P̨҉͇̲͔̙̰͓͈͇̤͉̹̯̫͈Ş̡̟̲͕̩̬̟̣̫̦̺͚͓͇̦W̸̨͓͔̟͉͔̫̬̮̣͓̺̜͓L̴̨҉͎͍̼͙̺̯̟̥͞ ̻͖̲͎̩̟͘͢P̶̵̷̧̗͔̬̻̻̹̰̱͍̗̦̘͔͎͈̫̘͝ͅS̴͜͢͡͏̲̖̹̠̬̜̲͖F̕͏̶̵̤̝̘͇̪͚͓͎̱̼͎͚̱̠͖͜ ̶̰̟̤͙̲̼͎̳͍̣͟͝͝J̥̺̳̗̟̫͇͖͟O̶̘̻̯͚̖̟̰̕͘Ų̵̝̫̹̙̼͔̙͙̯͎̺̰̲͢ͅP͇̥̮̻͈̘̗̺̱̼̖͇̗̭͔̠̕͟Į̢̱͕̬̳͉̠̗̬̯̬̣͝ͅL̷̦͔͚̫̝̕͡ 

 

The whispers grew louder and louder, nonsensical and eldritch, and as if compelled they- they stepped forward once more, between Margo and Regius to lay their other hand on top of her head, gingerly petting her hair. As they did so, their hand began to glow white then blue, blindingly bright, and then stopped as soon as it started. When it faded finally, Nick's eyes were almost comically wide and they stumbled back as if burned. The wound on Grenda's face wasn't healed much - if at all - but much of the blood was now cleaned up, and she blinked up at them with both eyes.

Both Regius and Margo were staring, and the former took a step back from them in shock and something that looked like fear. Nick could relate to the sentiment - they'd just done  _ magic. _ They hadn't a magical bone in their body, nor had they ever done more than glance at a book of magic! How in the world had they done that? The sapphire - this holy relic - had taken control over them to do whatever that was, and it was with shaking hands that they dropped it back into their pack.

"W-we should, er," they started, voice wavering. They cleared their throat and started again. "We should... stop and rest. If just for a bit. Tend our wounds."

They were met with silence, but silence wasn't a denial, and they sat down to catch their breath. The others did the same, tending to their wounds and the like. Grenda stood a moment longer, looking between her three companions, and hesitantly decided to approach and sit at Nick's side. She left a considerable distance between them and sat with her knees to her chest, avoiding looking at them, and their chest clenched in pity and more of that monstrous guilt. She was going to scar, no doubt. There was no measure of magic that could keep her from carrying around that memento of what Nick had done for the rest of her life.

Again, the apology stuck in their throat and the more they tried to speak, the more insistent the tears welling in their eyes. In the end they shut their mouth and said nothing.


	7. Khodan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nichol comes home hurt and their mother does what she can to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a scene between a young Nick and their mother. From Marcellia aka Marcy's POV. 'Khodan' is an Orcish word I made up to mean 'father.'

When Nichol arrived home, Marcy was waiting in the parlor for them as usual. She removed the lid from the tray of treats between their seats, waiting for them to join her- but instead, she heard the front door slam and footsteps rush toward the stairs. They were making a beeline for their room, it seemed, but they’d never done that before. Every afternoon after classes they would join their mother to speak of their day and share a snack. Marcy’s eyebrows drew together and she stood, concerned. Nichol had been going to classes for a couple months and was never one to break a habit. What had happened?

She arrived at the top of the stairs just as she heard another door slam, this one being the one to Nichol’s bedroom, and Marcy frowned. Carefully, she approached the door and pressed her ear to it, listening. Her heart skipped for a moment when she heard, muffled by the wood but unmistakable, a whimper and sniffle.

Marcy cleared her throat, knocking twice on the door. “Nichol? May I come in?”

“Leave me be!” Nichol snapped, and there was a soft sound as something - a pillow? - was thrown at the door.

Her frown only deepened. “Did something happen today?”

When they didn’t respond beyond more muffled whimpers, Marcy slowly opened the door. Nichol didn’t seem to notice her, head buried in one of their pillows as they continued to cry. Marcy’s shoulders sagged and she stepped inside, kicking the thrown pillow out of the way and closing the door behind her. She sat on the edge of Nichol’s bed and they froze when she did so, rubbing their face into the pillow once more before turning to look at her. Their copper eyes were red ringed and their cheeks were flushed and tear stained, long hair in disarray. Marcy lay a hand on their exposed calf and, realizing she wasn’t going anywhere, Nichol sighed and laid their head down still facing her.

“I told you to leave me alone,” they grumbled, voice thick.

“I know,” she said, smoothing her thumb over their skin in comfort. “But you didn’t come to the parlor and I was worried. What happened, darling?”

Nichol sniffled, shrugging. “Elle Highheart happened.”

Marcy raised her eyebrows. The Highhearts were a decent enough family, and Elle was their oldest daughter at twelve. She was five years older than Nichol, but Marcy wouldn’t have been surprised if they shared classes. Half-orcs like her child matured faster than human children did.

“What did she do?”

“She’s awful,” they said. “I tried- I wanted to-” They cut off, sniffling. “She got the whole class to call me ‘Grock,’ by the end of class. They were all shouting and laughing and I told them that’s not my name but-” As they spoke their voice thickened, growing high and tight until it broke and tears once more sprung into their eyes.

“Oh, dearest,” Marcy cooed, but Nichol continued.

“I don’t understand why they did that!” they exclaimed. “I told them my name is Nichol Strongblood a-and I’m not- I’m not a-”

They choked off again, and Marcy frowned. “You’re not a what?”

Nichol sobbed for a long moment, overcome and beyond words, until they finally reigned themself back in and looked back up at their mother. “An- I’m not an orc,” they murmured. “I’m not!”

Marcy’s heart broke and she nearly teared up herself. “Nichol, darling... your father was an orc. You’re half an orc, and there’s nothing wrong-”   
“I don’t want to be half an orc! I want to be normal,” they insisted. “Orcs are stupid and smelly and dangerous and-”

“Who told you that?” Marcy interrupted, tone becoming firm.

Nichol froze, then curled in on themself a little. “...Elle did.”

She huffed, squeezing Nichol’s calf comfortingly. “If anyone’s stupid and dangerous, it’s that Highheart girl,” Marcy said. “Do you know who your father was?”

“Dhagur the- um, the Quiet,” they said, nodding.

“The Silent, dear,” Marcy corrected gently. “Dhagur the Silent was the first orc I ever met. I was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and I had decided to sneak out in the middle of the night to run through the woods. I did it all the time until my shoes were lost to the brush and my gown was torn to shreds, and still kept running. My parents - your grandparents - were more proper nobles than I. I was suffocating under their control, and running in the dark was the closest to freedom I ever felt.

“Until I met Dhagur. I’d been running and, as I was passing through a clearing, a massive hand sprung out from behind a tree to stop me. I nearly screamed until I saw him - broad and handsome, a finger over his lips to silence me. I told him to let me go, and he told me - in Common! - to stay still until he finished his hunt. See, I’d nearly run straight into a herd of elk and scared them off. He’d been hunting them for over a week. After he got his kill, he let me go and I ran straight back to the estate, but I couldn’t get his face or his voice out of my head.

“Months later, and again I was running, and this time instead of finding him, he found me. I tripped on a huge, warped root, twisting my ankle and leaving me stranded on the forest floor. My foot was trapped under the root, somehow, and for all my trying I couldn’t get it out. I screamed for help for what felt like hours, until I heard a familiar hush.

“‘You again,’” Marcy said, affecting a low growl that had Nichol snickering despite themself. “‘You’re a troublesome one,’ he said to me, and then hefted a massive steel and bronze axe over his head to chop straight through the root as if it were parchment. The thing was as long as I am tall, and when I asked about it he called it Silencer, introducing himself as Dhagur the Silent. I joked that he wasn’t very quiet, haven spoken to me twice now, but then he said, ‘Yeah? Did you hear me before I wanted you to either time?’ He was right. He was deadly silent when he wanted to be, and that’s where he got his name.

“The rest is history, of course. He taught me Orcish at my request, and I taught him about the frivolities of noble life. We grew very close, fell in love, but when his clan discovered our relationship he was forced to either kill me or flee. He, of course, chose the latter and I haven’t seen him since.” She smiled at the bittersweet memory. “Months later you were born.”

Marcy sat up straight, lifting her hand to gently clap Nichol on the back. “Now! Does that sound like someone who’s stupid, smelly, and dangerous?”

Nichol smiled, shrugging. “Maybe not stupid,” they agreed. “You didn’t tell me how he smelled, and someone who can wield an axe that big must be dangerous.”

“He smelled like woodsmoke and fresh meat and virility,” Marcy said. “And perhaps there’s nothing wrong with being a little dangerous. Keeps your enemies at bay.”

“What does virility mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she said with a laugh, perhaps going a little pink. She squeezed their calf again. “Do you feel better?”

“I guess,” Nichol said. “How tall was he?”

“Nearly seven feet tall.”

“How many heads did the axe have?”

“Just the one, with a bronze edge.”

“How do you say ‘father’ in Orcish?”

“‘Khodan.’”

Nichol rolled over, staring at the canopy of their bed, repeating, ‘khodan,’ over again in various simple Orcish sentences, the likes of which Marcy had been teaching them for years.

“Yeah,” they said after a few minutes. “I feel better. Can you teach me more Orcish?”

Marcy smiled. “Of course, darling.” She stood, gesturing for them to follow as she made her way back toward the parlor. “Come, our tea is growing cold.”


	8. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References events from our September 7th session.

Nick hardly took a moment to take in the state of the camp, the heady smell of smoke and sweltering heat and general chaos, before they pushed through the small crowd atop the altar toward Zanhan. Their cursory sweep of the camp didn’t reveal Boomlay’s location and they grabbed Zanhan’s shoulder, drawing his attention.

“Where’s Boomlay?” they asked, and he looked at them incredulously.

“I- what? I don’t know. We’re obviously dealing with something right no-”

Nick’s grip on him tightened. “Do I look like I give a damn?”

Zanhan frowned, shrugging Nick off. “I know where he might be. After we put out these fires-”

“Where?” Nick interrupted again, and Zanhan stared in disbelief.

“The camp is on fire!” he exclaimed.

“You said you know where he might be! Where?!”

He kept staring for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “...North.”

Before he finished the thought, Nick shoved past Zanhan, huffing in annoyance with Grenda on their heels. As they continued suddenly they felt every muscle seize up as the cleric dwarf - Margo - shouted for them to stop. Something about not splitting up, about “I can’t do this again!” and destiny that Nick could hardly hear over the blood pumping in their ears and magic sparking over their skin. She was holding them in place with magic and it set their blood boiling. Grenda stumbled forward a couple more steps before she realized they were stuck, and stopped, looking uncertain.

The rest was a blur of rage as they struggled to get free. Margo approached with rope -  _ their  _ rope that they’d lent her, damn it! - and when she got close, obviously intending to tie them up, Grenda stepped in. Margo elbowed her out of the way and Nick growled, aching to lunge forward and beat Margo but still immobile. Grenda elbowed her back and part of Nick was proud for an instant before Margo shoved again, knocking Grenda to the ground. She yelped and lifted her elbow to inspect where it had been scraped and was bleeding very slightly. Nick saw red, trying still to break free - and they finally broke the spell’s hold, right as Margo finished tying the rope around their hands behind their back. They tried to break free again, but Margo didn’t seem to notice, tying the other end of the rope to a nearby fucking tree.

“I’m not a dog!” they exclaimed, mortified.

“I don’t trust you,” Margo replied. “Stay here.”

Regius approached from their other side, and for an instant Nick thought back to when they trained on the beach together, to fighting the mouther and trying to save him but being unable to extract themself from the damned thing’s ooze, but instead he tried to restrain and lift Grenda away from Nick. She wiggled out of his grasp easily, and Nick felt vindicated that the elf looked as impotent as Nick was, if just for a moment. Distantly, Nick removed both him and Margo from their favorable list. The list was already laughably short, but now it was moreso - Boomlay, Grenda, Kreoda, Deandre... and none else.

An earsplitting whistle cut through the commotion and drew everyone’s attention. Nick looked up to see it was Sam, then looked back away. They sat at the base of the tree they were bound to, rage still simmering under their skin as the archer went on and on about teamwork and destiny and sticking together. At the end Regius once more had the nerve to approach, and this time elected to try and lecture Nick (though in reality he just repeated Margo and Sam’s sentiments, though somehow more condescendingly), dagger in hand to cut them free once they, after a long silence, groaned out a terse,  _ “Fine.” _

Once free they retreated back to the tent they’d claimed before, sitting in the dark and silence alone to breathe. Grenda sat outside, peeking inside nervously only for them to dismiss her, saying she didn’t have to sit outside if she didn’t want to.

“Just steer clear of Margo and Regius,” they stipulated. “They hurt you and until they’re put in their place, I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

It was several minutes before they had calmed their heartbeat down to something reasonable. Still, they were furious - treated like some kind of animal and idiot child by their so-called comrades, debased and humiliated and talked down to (by damned pompous  _ commoners,  _ of all people!). They decided they would leave once the camp had bedded down for the night. Whether Grenda came with them wouldn’t matter - they wouldn’t seek her out, but if she tried to tag along they wouldn’t (couldn’t, truly) tell her no. They intended to follow their lead north to find Boomlay and, apparently, the others. They hadn’t noticed at first, but it became obvious that Kreoda and Deandre were both also missing.

After perhaps an hour of solitude, Grenda once more poked her head into the tent.

“Uh, Nick? Maybe we can go look for Boomlay now, since the fires are out and everyone’s rested,” she said, looking at their feet. Avoiding their gaze.

“Great idea,” Nick said instantly. “When are we leaving?” They stood, exiting the tent, and Grenda bit her lip.

“Um, i’ll go- i’ll go ask.” She disappeared through some brush and Nick rolled their shoulders. They hadn’t expected to leave now, but Grenda was right. The camp seemed relatively peaceful - perfect time to send a search party. Take advantage of the last few hours of daylight, perhaps save those missing from spending the night in the jungle.

However, when Grenda returned her expression had fallen and she looked terrified. Bad news, then. “I- uh, everyone says we should leave in the morning. The jungle is dangerous at night, you know.”

So we leave the others at its mercy? They thought instantly, but didn’t say so. Whatever emotion they’d allowed onto their face at the prospect of leaving immediately drained to feigned apathy.

“Fine,” they said, monosyllabic. Grenda flinched and for a moment Nick wanted to console her, tell her of their plan, if only to keep their attitude from scaring her, but decided against it. Couldn’t chance being overheard - they could hear Regius’s voice faintly from the middle of camp, talking to the dwarf who’d improved silencer and stolen their whetstone.

They nodded absently, then ducked back into the tent. Time to wait.


End file.
